The Paladin and The Drow
by Kendris
Summary: A forgotten book leads to a meeting between two worlds.
1. Chapter 1

The full moon hung in the cloudless sky overhead like a flawless pearl in the ocean of night, its silvery light providing more than enough illumination for Khaelin to spot the opening of the pathway leading into the forest. Not that the light was necessary; he had walked this way so often that he could probably make the journey with his eyes closed.

He pulled his cloak more closely around him as he entered the trees. It was still early enough in spring that there was a slight chill in the air at night, and he wore only his tunic and trousers. It felt odd, being out without his armor, but there was no way to don plate mail quietly, and he had not wanted to risk waking his roommates. None of them would have stopped him from going, but for a novice to be out after curfew was an offence punished by official reprimand and a week of the most onerous duties that could be devised, and he wanted to spare them any part of his crime.

He cursed his carelessness in leaving the book behind; he had lost track of time, and when he had realized how close he was to being late for evening chapel, he had hurriedly gathered up the rest of his belongings, forgetting the book where he had laid it on the moss-covered altar. Ordinarily, he would have simply gone back for it the next day, but the novices were scheduled to leave on a training exercise in the morning and be gone for several days; he'd seen signs of rats and other animal life within the temple, though only the squirrels were bold enough to scamper through the hole in the crumbling roof to watch him as he read or daydreamed. The book of poetry had been his mother's final gift to him, and he could not bear the thought of its pages being shredded to line a nest or burrow.

He had found the ancient and abandoned temple several weeks earlier on one of his walks, and it had quickly become his favorite place for solitude. Who the temple had been dedicated to, he did not know, although the form of the crumbling statue overlooking the altar seemed to indicate a female deity. The roof had crumbled in several places, admitting ample light to allow him to read while leaning back against the altar (it struck him as sacrilegious to actually sit upon the altar itself), but still provided areas of shelter against the afternoon showers that were frequent in the spring.

He moved easily through the trees, his feet instinctively avoiding the twigs and leaves that would betray his passage; much of his youth had been spent in the forest, in the company of his uncle, a ranger, and the skills that he had learned persisted, though he had chosen the path that would lead to paladinhood and a lifetime in the service of Helm.

As the pale stones of the temple became visible in the broken light that filtered through the trees, he slowed his pace, approaching cautiously. He had seen signs in the past that other humans had taken shelter within the temple: old firepits and discarded garbage that he took out and buried. He had left his sword with his armor, and while he was confident that he could handle common ruffians with the dagger at his belt, the element of surprise was an advantage that he preferred to have on his side.

Pausing, he reached out, probing cautiously with his mind, using one of the first magics that novices were taught, but felt no trace of evil in the area. Still cautious, he remained silent as he approached the threshold, the door having rotted away centuries earlier, and in the preternatural silence, he heard the faint whisper of a page being turned.

_My book._ The image of some illiterate peasant's grubby fingers smudging the parchment pages or – worse – tearing out a few sheets to clean up after relieving himself in a corner made him throw caution to the wind. He stepped around the threshold – and froze, the words of warning dying on his lips.

The moon's light shone through the holes in the roof, casting much of the room into shadow, but falling in a silvery cascade upon the crumbling statue and the solitary figure stretched out upon the altar.

_Drow!_ He felt a surge of instinctive antipathy, but confusion followed close behind, for he could still sense no evil within the room. While he remembered his uncle telling him that not all drow were evil, he had received no such teachings from the Order. As he pondered this contradiction, he became aware of two other facts: the drow was female…and she was completely nude.

She was utterly engrossed in the book – his book – that lay open before her, and had not yet noticed his presence, giving his stunned gaze ample time to travel over her.

She lay on her stomach, her skin gleaming like black satin in the moonlight, hair white as frost cascading over her shoulders. Her body was lithely muscled, and his eyes traced the curves seemingly of their own will, from the rounded shoulder down to the small of her back, over the taut curve of her buttocks and along her legs, cocked back at the knees and ankles crossed lazily. His gaze moved forward, drawn to the gleam of metal: a coil of silver about her upper arm that was the only adornment on her. Much of the swell of her breast was concealed by her arms, but there was more than enough visible to make his mouth go as dry as a desert, and he hastily raised his eyes to her face. Her eyes were lavender, still fixed intently upon the book, and the look of unguarded wonder on her face held him spellbound. _By the gods, she is beautiful._

As though feeling his eyes upon her, she raised her head. For an instant, the look of dreamy wonder remained in her eyes, before being abruptly replaced with shock, fear and hostility. In a flash, she was off the altar, backing away from him as her eyes darted about, looking for an escape route, teeth bared in a silent snarl as she realized that he blocked the only way out of the temple.

"Peace, my lady," he called softly, holding out his hands so that she could see they were empty. "I mean you no harm. I simply came to retrieve the book that I left here today."

"Your book?" She spoke in the common tongue with a lilting accent, her eyes darting to the open book, then back to his face, narrowing in suspicion. "Why were you here?"

"I come here often," he told her. "It is a peaceful place to read and reflect." He looked at her thoughtfully, fighting to keep his gaze above her neck; fortunately, the shadows into which she had retreated assisted his endeavor. "This is not your first visit here, is it?"

"My comings and goings are none of your concern, male!" she snapped.

"My name is Khaelin," he replied, keeping his voice low and calm, "and I simply wondered if you knew the deity for whom this temple was made; I have been unable to find any identifying marks or inscriptions."

She relaxed somewhat, though her wary gaze never left him. "I know not to whom it was originally dedicated," she said with a shake of her head, "and if this is your book," she added, stepping forward to retrieve it from the altar, "then take it and go."

As she moved toward him, holding out the book, her body left the concealment of the shadows. Khaelin gasped and hastily averted his eyes. She stopped, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and impatience. "You seemed willing enough to look upon my body earlier," she observed acerbically, "or was your boldness due to the fact that I was unaware of your presence?"

"I was taken by surprise," he admitted, aware that he was blushing to the roots of his hair. "I did not expect to find anyone here, and certainly not one so beautiful."

"If you find me beautiful, why do you not wish to look at me?"

"It is not proper for a man to look upon an unclothed woman if they are not married," he stammered. "It was wrong of me to look at you before, and I apologize."

"Apologies are for the weak," she scoffed, but there was no real bite in her words. She was silent for a long moment, then said, "You have read this book?"

"Several times," he replied. "It was a gift to me from my mother."

"A gift," she mused. "And you – loved – your mother?" She used the word hesitatingly, as though uncertain if its meaning was correct.

"Very much so," Khaelin said softly. "She died two years ago."

"And you grieve for her death," the drow observed thoughtfully. "If my mother died, I would not grieve," she added matter-of-factly. "My only regret would be that my eldest sister would have the rest of us killed to secure her position."

He started to turn to stare at her in shock, then brought himself up short, sliding his cloak from his shoulders. "My lady, if we are to converse, might I prevail upon you to wear this?" he asked, holding the cloak out while continuing to avert his eyes.

He heard a low chuckle, then felt the cloak being taken from his hand. "Very well," she said. "You may turn around now; I have covered myself."

Breathing a sigh of relief, he turned to find lavender eyes regarding him with amusement and more than a hint of appraisal. The dark blue cloak now covered her from neck to toes, and she fingered the clasp, glancing down at the symbol of the Watcher, the eye and the gauntlet, that adorned it. "You are a Helmite?" she asked with obvious surprise.

"I am in the final year of my novitiate," he replied.

"So you are not yet a true paladin," she observed. "Is that why you did not slay me on the spot?"

He blinked. "I did not try to harm you because I sense no evil in you," he answered. "The orders of Helm fight evil; they do not kill indiscriminately."

"There are few who kill indiscriminately," the drow observed with a bitter smile. "Even among the drow, those who kill do so for a reason…although those who die undoubtedly disagree with those reasons."

"A harsh way to live, my lady," Khaelin replied gently.

"It is all that I have known," she replied simply, then raised her eyes to him questioningly. "This book…the poems within it…they speak of things: love, trust, devotion. Is this truly what the surface world is like?"

He hesitated, trying to frame his reply honestly. "The poems seek to honor those ideals that are considered best in our world. There is evil here on the surface, or more often indifference, but there are many good men and women, as well, and the ideals extolled in these poems is what they strive for."

"I see." She was silent for a moment, then a hint of mischief crept into her eyes. "And do you consider yourself a good man?"

"I try to do what is good," he answered awkwardly. "I can only hope that I succeed more often than I fail."

Unexpectedly, she reached out a hand, feeling his bicep experimentally. He held his breath, feeling her touch burn like fire through the cloth of his tunic. "You are strong," she observed, lavender eyes gazing up at him piercingly. "It would have been no challenge for you to overpower me and take me. Even now, I can feel your desire for me, yet you are not even willing to look upon me unclothed. If you were a drow, it would be a sign of weakness, a reason for contempt, but here, on the surface, it is considered," she hesitated, her brow furrowing as she searched for the right word. "Chivalry?" she said uncertainly.

He nodded. "And courtesy, also." Looking down at her, he felt himself getting lost in those incredible eyes. "Why were you here?" he found himself asking suddenly. "This is not your first time in this temple, is it?"

She dropped her gaze and stepped away from him, hugging the book to her chest. "I'm sorry," he said instantly, fearing that he had pushed too hard. "It's none of my business, really."

"Apologies are for the weak," she repeated, but there was a gleam of humor in her eyes as her gaze returned to his. "You are correct in thinking that I have been here before. I discovered this place several years ago, and return here every full moon. I worship Eilistraee, and I found this temple to be an ideal place to commune with the Dark Maiden."

Khaelin frowned, searching his mind for what knowledge of the drow his uncle had passed to him. "Eilistraee? But isn't her worship –"

"Punishable by death," the drow finished for him flatly. "Lolth is a jealous goddess and will tolerate no rivals within her realms. Several days ago, a group was found out and sacrificed; they confided their faith to one who betrayed them. No other drow knows that I worship Eilistraee. You are the first living soul that I have told."

"I am honored by such trust," he replied.

She gave him a wry smile. "Do not think overly much of it; who would you tell, after all?"

"There is that," he admitted with a chuckle.

She grew serious again. "After the others were sacrificed, I prayed to Eilistraee, asking her for a sign…some hope that the way things are is not the way that they must always be. Then I came here tonight and found this." She glanced down at the book in her hands. "Is it her answer…or simply a book left behind by a forgetful paladin?"

"Novice," he corrected her automatically, "but perhaps it is both? I have been here many times, and have never forgotten that book before."

"Perhaps," she conceded, staring past him at the sky that was beginning to show the first hint if dawn. "But I must go now." She held the book out to him, but he shook his head.

"Keep it, if you like," he offered.

"I cannot," she replied regretfully, pressing the book into his hands. "If such an item were to be found in my possession, it would arouse too much suspicion." She paused, then raised her eyes to meet his again. "I will return here each full moon, however, and I would welcome further discussion on these matters."

The thought of punishment never entered his mind. "I'll be here," he promised.

"Good," she said with a slight smile. "Thank you for the use of your cloak," she added, slipping out of the garment and standing naked before him, chuckling as he immediately averted his eyes. "Does the sight of my body truly offend you so greatly?"

"It – affects me greatly," he said at last, searching for a delicate way to describe the surge of desire that her nearness excited in him, "but it does not offend me."

A cool hand touched his face, turning it so that he was once more gazing into those lavender eyes. "Then perhaps that is something else that we can discuss when we meet again, Khaelin," she whispered, brushing her lips against his in the gentlest of kisses.

He stood stunned as she sauntered out the door, then remembered something. "What is your name?" he called after her, striding to the door.

"Amaleari," she replied without looking back. Within seconds, she was lost in the shadows of the forest.

"Amaleari," he repeated softly, glancing east to the rapidly lightening sky. His chances of sneaking back into the barracks undetected were diminishing with every minute, but whatever the punishment, it had been worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Amaleari slipped carefully through the brush that concealed the cave entrance, turning to ensure that her passage had not left a gap that would draw the curious eyes of any surfacer that might happen along. The place was isolated, surrounded by thick forest, so the odds were remote, but she did not wish to take any risks. She had discovered this path to the surface, and to what she now considered to be the temple of her goddess, purely by chance, and she was determined to protect it.

Having ensured that the camouflaging foliage remained intact, she turned and moved forward with quick, sure steps. Even without the faint moonlight filtering through the thickly interwoven branches of the trees that towered around her, her customary path was plainly visible to one whose eyes were born to penetrate the sunless depths of the Underdark.

She paused in the first clearing as she always did, raising her face to allow the silver light of Eilistraee to bathe her, the radiance almost unbearably bright until her eyes adjusted, accepting the brief, stabbing pain willingly as the price to be paid for her race's centuries' long exile from the Dark Maiden's realm. She remembered how intensely the light had hurt the first time she had submitted herself to Eilistraee's gaze. Drow avoided the surface during the full moon; Bloodings and surface raids were conducted when the moon was either well advanced in waning or hidden by clouds. She couldn't even begin to imagine what the searing light of a noonday sun would be like, and she had no real interest in finding out. It was enough to bask in the moon's light, to feel the cool breeze, so different from the still air of the Underdark, and to smell the aromatic blend of new growth and decaying plant life in the forest.

She broke off this first, silent communion with her goddess and resumed her trek, more slowly now, savoring the feel of the spongy loam beneath her bare feet, the textures of the bark and leaves of the seemingly infinite variety of trees that she passed. Putting out a hand, she touched the trunk of a pine tree glistening with sap, then raised her hand to her nose, breathing deeply of the pungent scent. She had made this journey countless times over the years, in every season, from early spring to winter snows, and the constant progression of change, dynamic and yet predictable, familiar and yet always new and different, enthralled her. The Underdark knew no seasons, and change there occurred on a geologic scale as water molded stone over millenia. Only earthquakes and landslides hastened the process.

As she continued onward, she could see the denizens of the forest moving hastily away from her path, the heat from their bodies registering in her vision as a faint red glow. In the Underdark, the glow was much brighter, but here the brilliance of the light from the moon overwhelmed it almost entirely. She scanned the larger forms cautiously; she had seen bears several times and a panther twice, but though potentially dangerous, she knew that they posed little threat as long as she maintained her distance. The surface dwellers that concerned her the most walked on two legs. Tonight, however, she saw nothing more than a trio of deer bounding away through the trees.

Nevertheless, as she grew closer to the temple, her steps grew more cautious, all her senses keyed to the night around her. While the surfacers who had built the temple were long dead, others had made more recent use of it, though not for its intended purpose. She had found the remains of campfires where surfacers had taken shelter in the temple for the night. Sometimes the camps were neat, with nothing left behind but a ring of stones surrounding a carefully extingushed fire. Other times, the surfacers had defiled the temple, leaving their refuse scattered about, even relieving themselves in the corners like beasts. Each time, she meticulously removed all traces of their presence before beginning her rituals of worship.

A handful of times, the surfacers had actually been within the temple when she came; on the first such occasion, she had very nearly been caught, and only her superior night vision and the blessing of Eilistraee had allowed her to elude her pursuers. She had been careful since then, slipping away unseen when the sound of voices or the smell of woodsmoke drifted to her on the night air.

Tonight, was different, however. Tonight, for the first time, she expected another at the temple, though she could not honestly say if the quickening of her pulse was from anticipation or apprehension as the stones of the temple became visible through the trees. Her pace slowed, and where she had consciously sought out the moonlight earlier in her walk, she now moved to blend seamlessly into shadow, her ears straining to catch any sound that did not belong to the night forest. She was fully expecting to discover that the Helmite had brought a squad of paladins to capture her, was ready to melt back into the forest to the small glade where she worshipped when the temple was occupied.

_Why did you come, then?_ she asked herself, already knowing the answer. She was curious to see if he would come alone, curious to see if he was as treacherous as she had always been told surfacers were, curious about _him_.

She had seen surfacers before; in her role as a scout, she had been taught both to speak and to read the Common tongue, and had been called on frequently to seek out targets for the Blooding of the young, but her contact with them had been fleeting, limited to brief sightings and overheard conversations. Interrogation of captives was the prerogative of the Handmaidens of Lolth, and humans were ill suited to serve as slaves in the Underdark; their vision simply could not adapt to the lack of light. Khaelin was the first human that she had spoken with, and she found herself intrigued with him on many levels.

Sexual attraction, of course, played no small part. He was both taller and more muscular than the drow males, and quite comely in appearance, and despite his steadfast refusal to look upon her unclothed, it was plain that he desired her, as well. Oddly, though such reluctance in a drow male would have either insulted her or filled her with contempt, it only served to sharpen her interest in the human. Her lips curved into a sensual smile as she imagined what it might take to bring his desire to the surface, what pleasures such a specimen might provide once properly trained.

Then she sighed to herself. Such were the thoughts of a drow, but what of the book of poems that had captivated her so, poems that told of a world in which such pleasures were pursued not merely for pleasure's sake, but as an expression of…love? Was it even possible for a drow to love, she wondered. Certainly she had never felt anything remotely similar to the emotions that had been revealed to her in those pages. She had lain with any number of males, but while she preferred some over others, that preference had been rooted solely in their ability to fulfill her physical desires. She certainly harbored no tender feelings toward her family, and knew full well that their feelings toward her – and each other – were the same. She was loyal to her House because a drow without affiliation to one of the Houses was but a short step removed from a slave. Her eldest sister was growing in power; it was only a matter of time before she succeeded in killing their mother. Already, her sisters were jockeying for favor with the heir apparent, knowing that their only chance to survive the traditional purging that followed such a succession lay in convincing the new Matriarch of their usefulness. Trust was not an issue; that any one of them would kill any of the others to gain an advantage was implicitly understood. The stronger ruled, the weaker served…or died.

It was all that she had known, yet from her earliest memories it had felt wrong. She had learned quickly to keep such thoughts hidden, yet she had frequently wondered how it could be so, when she had nothing to serve as a comparison, nothing to show her what was right. For most of her life, she had been resigned to a future of merely existing, with no answers to her questions, no thought beyond day to day survival, but that was before Eilistraee had found her…

Standing at the edge of the clearing, she cocked her head, listening. The surface world was noisy in comparison to the Underdark: the wind blowing through the trees, the constant rustling of creatures on the forest floor, the soft calls of crickets and owls. In the depths of the earth, where even the slightest sound could set up an echo audible hundreds of yards away, silence was the key to life; outside the cities, noise occurred only when death was imminent: either your own or that of your opponent. Still, over the years, she had grown attuned to the sounds of the night, and she was confident that a group of armored paladins would be unable to lie in wait without some betraying sound.

Hearing nothing, she stepped cautiously from the trees, approaching the crumbling edifice warily from the rear, the pale stones looming in the darkness like the bleached bones of some long-dead giant protruding from the earth, the intricate carvings that had once adorned them all but obliterated by time. As she picked her way carefully among the fallen stones, she paused as a faint but familiar sound reached her ears: slow, even breathing, punctuated by an occasional soft snore. One man, alone and, from the sound of it, asleep.

Reaching the doorway, she peered around it. Khaelin sat on the ground, his back resting against the altar, the book open in his lap, head bowed, eyes closed. He wore no armor, only a tunic and trousers similar to what he had been clothed in a month ago, and his only weapon was a dagger at his belt. She smiled as she noticed his blue cloak folded neatly on the ground beside him. The nights were warm enough that he would not have required the garment, but he had obviously remembered the use to which it had been put at their last meeting. She had given thought to arriving nude again to unsettle him, but had ultimately decided to wear the robe that she kept hidden at the mouth of the cave. When she came to the surface, she left behind the leather armor and cruel weapons that she used in her forced service to Lolth. On occasion, as she had last month, she would forego even the robe, savoring the feel of the night air upon her bare skin. The robe might seem inadequate protection, and the lack of it even more so, but as a cleric of the Dark Lady, she had been given other means of protecting herself, spells that would conceal her well enough to allow her to escape any attackers, and others that were capable of causing harm, should the situation require it.

She stood silently in the doorway, studying him curiously. His sandy brown hair fell to the collar of his tunic, neatly trimmed and carefully combed; it had been somewhat tousled at their first meeting. His face was not as finely boned as those of drow males, but there was a rugged appeal to his features that intrigued her; her eyes traced the line of his high cheekbones, the nose that looked to have been broken at least once in his life, the strong jaw and chin, moving lastly to his lips, parted slightly in sleep. A tempting specimen, indeed; unbidden, the thought came to her that she could use her magic to bind him, take him back with her to the Underdark as her slave. There were spells and potions that would erode his will, leaving him desiring only to do her bidding…

But as much as his comely face and well-muscled body drew her, far more fascinating was the book in his hands and the world that it represented. Then, too, there had been the way he had looked at her; no drow, male or female, had ever met her eyes so openly, with no calculation, no hostility, fear or contempt. He might gaze at her adoringly as a spellbound slave, but she would know it for the lie that it was.

He shifted slightly in his sleep, utterly oblivious to her presence, and she felt a sudden stab of irritation. The fool had come here to wait for a drow, and had fallen asleep as though safe in his own bed; she could have led a patrol to him and slaughtered him before he could lift his head. She stepped forward, intending to deliver a sharp kick to the ribs to startle him from sleep and show him the folly of such carelessness, but as she swung her foot, his right hand shot out to grab her ankle, his body twisting so that his legs knocked her remaining foot from beneath her. She hit the stones of the temple floor on her back, and he was on her in an instant, pinning her to the ground with one hand while the other dropped to the dagger at his hip, blue eyes cold and deadly.

His expression shifted in an instant as recognition flashed across his face, and he leaped to his feet, his hand dropping from the hilt of the dagger as if it were red hot. "Amaleari – my lady," he stammered. "I apologize…you startled me…I did not mean to-"

"To fall asleep in a place where anyone could come upon you unawares?" she finished for him tartly. "You are fortunate, indeed, that it was only I who found you, instead of one of our young seeking a Blooding. You would have been dead before your eyes ever opened." Although, in truth, she was no longer so sure of this, and was irritated with herself for underestimating him. The speed of his response had been remarkable, and his strength…the shiver that coursed through her was not entirely unpleasant.

He flushed at her words, looking abashed. "It was careless of me, I know. I came here immediately after the evening meal; it is easier to leave the chapter house undetected then. I thought to read until you arrived, but," he blushed even more, running his fingers awkwardly through his hair, "I forgot that such activity is also how I lull myself to sleep on restless nights." Suddenly remembering the book, he turned and picked it up from where it had fallen, brushing dust from the cover and thumbing through the pages anxiously.

"It is not damaged, I hope?" Amaleari asked, peering around him at the tome, silently calling herself a fool for giving no thought to what might happen to the book when she startled him.

"No," he replied, the relief in his voice evident as he carefully placed the book on the altar. Turning to face her, he seemed startled by her proximity, even more so when she reached up to smooth the hair that his fingers had left in disarray. She took her time; its texture was surprisingly fine. She noted with amusement that he was holding his breath.

"You seem as ill at ease now as when I was unclothed," she observed. "Does this mean that I need not wear this robe?" She reached for the top button of the garment, her eyes gleaming a challenge, but he shook his head, raising his hands as if to stop her, though he did not quite dare to touch her hands, which were – very deliberately – in close proximity to her breasts.

"I am ill at ease because I have been caught in a position which would have me cleaning the stables for a month, had I been on duty," he told her, "and because I could have done you serious harm, had I not recognized you in time."

"Or could have come to serious harm, if I were more like others of my race," she reminded him with a sardonic quirk of her eyebrow. "Still, I do not think that your superiors would be entirely displeased with your response. You would have taken all but the most experienced of our warriors off guard."

"Then I am fortunate, indeed, that it was you who found me," he replied with a smile, "and I would prefer that you wear your robe, my lady. It would make it much easier for me to focus on our conversation."

"You could consider it a test of your powers of concentration," she teased him, but as he blushed again, she lowered her hands, satisfied that she had been the victor in this part of the encounter. "What shall we speak of, then?" she asked him.

"I will leave that up to you, my lady," Khaelin replied courteously. "You expressed curiosity regarding the virtues described in many of the poems. I would be most willing to read and discuss them with you."

"That would be satisfactory," she said, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "I think that tonight, I would like to hear of the concepts of honor and chivalry." In truth, she would have preferred to hear his gentle baritone voice reading the poems of love that her eyes had so eagerly devoured beneath the last full moon, but part of her feared that in learning more of such an emotion, she would discover that the drow were unable to experience it, leaving her hungering for what she could never have. The request that she had made seemed safer.

If Khaelin had noticed any hesitation in her manner, he made no mention of it. Picking up the book, he returned to his seat on the floor, moving far enough over to allow her to sit beside him leaning back against the altar and extending a hand in invitation. She took it, feeling the calluses created by years of weapons training, and sat down, her knee lightly touching his. Noticing him tilting the book in an attempt to capture the greatest amount of moonlight, she murmured a spell and a small ball of magefire appeared in the air between them, its light gentle to her eyes, but providing sufficient illumination to allow him to read easily.

"Thank you, my lady," he said, eyeing the magefire appreciatively before lowering his head to page through the book. "This should provide a good starting point," he said with a nod of satisfaction, angling the book to allow her to see the words as he began to read, "The Virtues of a Knight, by Sir Tomlin Caminarus…."


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note: I had misgivings about the original version of this chapter about 5 seconds after I posted it, when the words "Mary Sue" started flashing before my eyes. Having Eilistraee pop in for a visit was the clincher. The new version fleshes out the life of a novice a bit more and offers a different result to his confrontation with the drow. Don't know if it's better or not, but it definitely feels more real to me. (Sorry, Mike…the bad drow still lose)_

_I also did a few edits on chapters 1 and 2, including changing the pally-to-be's name…the original just never sounded right, and I finally came up with one I liked. Many thanks to Lady Fellshot for the input._

_Thanks and hugs to Tasharene for being my beta reader!_

* * *

The practice blade caught Khaelin full on the side of his helmet, sending him sprawling to the ground, his ears ringing from the impact.

"What in blazes do you think you're doing, novice?" Sir Daven Tarrent stood glowering over him, his face flushed with anger. "You didn't even try to block with your shield!"

"I'm sorry, Sir Daven," Khaelin said as he scrambled to his feet to stand somewhat unsteadily before the knight who supervised the martial training of the Order's novices. "My attention wandered; it won't happen again."

"Wandered?" Tarrent's bellow turned every head on the practice field, and his face turned an even uglier shade of red. "It shouldn't have happened at _all_! You are less than two months from your Test! Inexcusable for one who would be a paladin! What would happen to your comrades-in-arms if you allowed yourself to be struck down while skygazing?"

"They would suffer for my lapse, sir," Khaelin replied miserably, feeling his cheeks burning with shame.

"Indeed, they would," the knight growled, lowering his voice slightly, "as would the innocents that you will be sworn to defend…should you pass your Test and be accepted into the service of Helm."

The implication of his words was not lost on the young man. "Yes, sir," he said softly.

Tarrent glared at him. "Sixty minutes of drills on the pell when practice is over, and I'd better see you sweating, boy … and latrine duty for the next week."

"Yes, sir," Khaelin repeated, trying not to let his relief show. Cleaning the latrines was onerous, but it was done in the mornings. The knight could have just as easily assigned him to the night watch.

"Now get that shield up," Tarrent commanded, shifting back into a combat stance, "and see if you can keep your attention on your opponent for the remainder of practice."

OOO

Daylight had already begun to fade as he trudged from the practice field, his muscles aching from hour of pounding away at the wooden post designed to rehearse basic sword strikes until the motions became as instinctive as breathing. He had spent much time at this activity in the first year of his novitiate, then progressively less as his training advanced; it had been close to six months since he had last been required to drill thusly. Tarrent's order had been as much a psychological punishment as a physical one, and Khaelin had pushed himself mercilessly, maintaining what he knew to be perfect form, not allowing himself to pause until the full time had elapsed. His clothes were drenched with sweat, unpleasantly clammy beneath his armor.

He sighed in resignation, knowing that by the time he had bathed and changed clothes, the evening meal would be finished and darkness well advanced. The progression of autumn had brought with it not only a shortening of the daylight hours, but also gloomy weather, with almost two weeks of near constant rain. The formerly crisp mornings had turned cool and damp, and the brilliant colors of the forest surrounding the town had muted to dull brown as the trees prepared to shed their leaves for the winter. The daily maintenance of weapons and armor had changed from a routine task to an urgent necessity in order to stay ahead of relentless rust. The rain had finally ceased two days ago, but the clouds remained, hanging low in the sky in a slate grey blanket. The distraction that had earned Khaelin his reprimand and punishment had been an all too brief break in the cover, giving him a tantalizing glimpse of blue sky, and the sight of even heavier clouds moving to fill the breach had left him more dispirited than Daven's harsh words.

Would she be there tonight? Despite the fact that the moon remained hidden, after the last six months, he had become as attuned to her cycles as any priestess of Eilistraee; the moon would be full tonight, but would Amaleari come to the temple if it were not visible?

This question had increasingly dominated his thoughts during the last few days, even though he knew that more of his attention should be focused on his training. The Test for ascending to paladinhood was given on the eve of winter solstice, and as the date grew closer their daily drills had become ever more rigorous and demanding, the inspections more frequent and exacting, yet his thoughts remained fixed upon the beautiful drow. He had managed to keep his excursions secret, since they only occurred once a month, but it was becoming increasingly harder to conceal his divided attention.

He passed by the dining hall, ignoring the rumbling in his stomach at the scent of the beef stew and warm bread. Novices were forbidden to take their meals after drills unless they had bathed first; at least he would have the bathing chamber to himself, and he could have his dinner in the kitchens afterward. Unfortunately, the brief period of activity that followed the evening meal, with assigned novices on kitchen cleanup duty and the remainder socializing in the short time remaining before they were required to be in their beds, would be all but over by the time he was done. He would have to wait until everyone was asleep before sneaking out.

Going first to the room that he shared with three other novices, he removed his armor, placing it on the rack beside the others, then grabbing clean clothes before heading downstairs to the bathing chamber. He could have simply changed clothes and left, but he was acutely aware of the mingled odor of sweat, leather and steel that clung to him in an almost visible miasma; the notion of sitting next to Amaleari for several hours smelling like an armory was not one that he was willing to entertain.

In the bathing room, he poured several buckets of cold water from a pump into one of the claw footed brass tubs, then added several more from a spigot that ran from a clever device of gnomish design, which ran water from a large cistern on the roof of the chapter house through a length of coiled copper tubing that passed through the fires in the kitchen directly above. After adding buckets of hot water until the tub was steaming, he stripped and stepped into the bath, wincing at the heat, easing into the water gingerly, then sighing with relief as he felt his aching muscles easing almost immediately. Settling back until only his head was above water, he savored the rare luxury of a quiet soak; normally, all the other tubs in the room were occupied, with others waiting their turn, and the room was filled with noise and horseplay.

After a few minutes, he picked up the soap and quickly washed his hair and body, then opened the drain on the tub, sending the tepid water cascading through shallow channels in the stone floor to the large drain in the center of the room. He toweled himself dry, then dressed and made his way back up to the kitchen. As he had suspected, the only ones remaining were the novices assigned to clean-up duty, all of them two to three years behind him in training. His seniority afforded him a certain level of respect, and he was left in peace as he hurriedly downed a large bowl of stew and half a loaf of rye bread. He felt a twinge of guilt as he added his bowl and spoon to the already formidable pile in the sink, but only a twinge. He had done his time on this duty earlier in his novitiate; now, it was their turn.

"Damn, I was beginning to think that Tarrent came back and finished you off!" Donnal Felton announced when he returned to his room.

"Just enjoying having a bath without worrying about someone pouring a bucket of cold water over my head," Khaelin replied with a grin.

Donnal smirked unrepentantly. "Hey, I told you to hurry up!" The son of a wealthy farmer, he had become Khaelin's closest friend among the other novices.

"You should really call him Sir Daven, Donnal," Liam Cionnad said with a frown.

Donnal shrugged. "I do to his face, but he's not even a paladin."

"He still a knight of Helm," Liam insisted, "and is worthy of your respect even when he is not present."

Donnal rolled his eyes. Liam was a good enough man, but was consumed with issues of propriety, and utterly lacking in anything remotely resembling a sense of humor. He was the youngest son of an Amnish noble, and had evidently been drilled in the niceties of 'appropriate behavior' since birth. "All right, all right…_Sir_ Daven."

"He used to be a paladin, y'know," Alivar Rhyton spoke up, the gleam in his green eyes making it plain that he was aware they _didn't _know.

"You're kidding!" Donnal turned and stared at the young Calimshite. "What happened?"

Alivar shrugged. "Dunno. I just found his name in the records when I was doing some research in the library. He passed his Test fifteen years ago."

"That's all that you can tell us, Bookworm?" Donnal demanded with exaggerated incredulousness. "Get back into those stacks and don't come out until you can tell us why he was kicked out!" He turned back to Liam with a smugly triumphant smile. "A fallen paladin! I _knew_ there was something wrong with him!"

Liam gave him a look of withering scorn. "Do you really think they would have allowed him to remain in the service of Helm, much less train the novices, if he had truly fallen? Many find that they cannot maintain the standards demanded of paladins and renounce their status voluntarily. They may still serve honorably as knights and clerics."

Khaelin stretched out on his bunk, leaving his clothes in a pile within easy reach, as the debate continued between the other three. As long as they focused on that, they were unlikely to think of querying him on his lapse of attention this afternoon. He had felt guilty at concealing his monthly forays from them, but if they didn't know, they would not share any punishment if he happened to be caught.

"What do you think, Khael?" Donnal challenged him after several more minutes of verbal sparring.

"I think they wouldn't let a fallen paladin train us," he replied, giving a theatrical yawn in the middle of the sentence. "And I think I'd like to get some rest so I don't fall asleep in weapons practice again."

"Forget weapons practice!" Donnal exclaimed. "Tomorrow night is Count Kessarin's ball, and you'll need all the stamina you can get if Lucinde actually manages to drag you into the garden shed this time!"

Khaelin groaned silently. In his preoccupation with the overcast sky, he had completely forgotten about the ball. The older novices were permitted to attend these society events, and were considered good matches by girls and parents alike. Lucinde Kessarin had been pursuing him for three months; he'd already had two narrow escapes. The girls were models of propriety and modesty while their parents were looking on, but Khaelin knew of more than one novice who had been trapped into marriage by a pregnancy following a clandestine tryst arranged by one of these 'proper and modest' young women. He had no intention of becoming one of them. "You can have her, Donnal."

Donnal chuckled wickedly. "I've got my hands full with Marissa," he leered. "Besides, it's you that she's got her sights set on, my boy, so you might as well give her what she wants. Trust me: after a few romps, she'll move on to someone else." He had no qualms about taking full advantage of his dark good looks and the semiheroic status that his novitiate gave him with the local women.

"Someday, you're going to get one of these girls pregnant, Donnal," Liam predicted ominously. "The Order may turn a blind eye to dalliances, but they'll not let you father a child out of wedlock."

Donnal seemed unconcerned. "That's why I only let myself be seduced by pretty girls," he said, climbing into the bunk above Khaelin.

"And that's why you'll wind up with a beautiful girl with the brains of a shrew and a temper to match," Alivar chuckled, settling into his own bed.

The banter continued in the same vein for several minutes more before a sharp knock on the door reminded them that they were past the time for lights out. Khaelin and Liam each extinguished the lamps beside the bunks, and silence descended upon the room along with darkness. True to form, Donnal was asleep within minutes, his soft snores drifting down from overhead. The others would be close behind; the strenuous training ensured sound sleep…for most.

Khaelin lay awake in the dark, fighting off weariness. His worry over the clouds had kept him awake the last few nights, but he was unwilling to risk falling asleep and waking too late to meet Amaleari, though it was still a good hour before he would feel safe creeping through the halls.

She would be there, surely. She was enthralled by the book of poetry, querying him ceaselessly about the values and customs that lay behind each verse. He closed his eyes, remembering the intensity of her amethyst gaze, the silken feel of her frost white hair brushing against his skin as she leaned into him to read from the book, and immediately felt a familiar tightening in his loins. He clenched his teeth, focusing upon his breathing until the arousal subsided.

A sigh of frustration escaped him. Another reason he could not sleep. Immediately before and after their monthly meetings, his dreams invariably took a decidedly erotic turn: Amaleari, lithe and naked against him, covering his face and neck with hungry kisses, her arms and legs twining about him, drawing him down to the soft grass of the forest floor where they would make love again and again. If he was lucky, he would awaken in time and lay motionless until burning desire was replaced by a dull but bearable ache in his groin. Most times, however, he wound up needing to wash his sheets. He accepted the ribbing from his roommates good naturedly at such times; it was far from an uncommon occurrence in a barracks full of healthy young males whose social lives had been severely curtailed. What worried him was the possibility that the wrong word spoken in his sleep would give his secret away.

_I am not sinning…am I?_ He was breaking curfew, an infraction that would undoubtedly earn him several days of cleaning the latrines, but no more severe punishment than that…if it were not for the fact that he was breaking curfew to meet with a drow.

It had become clear to him as his training progressed that the entire race of dark elves was considered irredeemably evil by his tutors, and his cautiously worded questions about the worshippers of Eilistraee had been met with good natured scoffing, but scoffing, nonetheless.

"Never seen one, lad," Fionghal Caelnar had assured him confidently. "I've no doubt that the Dark Maiden has her followers, but their lives must be short in the cesspool of the Underdark. I've yet to meet a drow that wasn't seething with evil; most of them I can feel before I see them."

"He's right," Braden Silverstrom agreed, shaking his head with narrowed eyes as he fingered a nasty scar on his right forearm. "Lolth rules them with an iron hand, and there is only one punishment for apostates."

"Did a drow give you that?" Khevar asked curiously.

The paladin had nodded, his face bleak. "Some of the poisons they put on their weapons eat away at the flesh like hot water melting ice. I got that from a glancing blow; others weren't so lucky."

If Fionghal and Braden were to meet Amaleari, would they sense an evil in her that he had missed? She had been given ample opportunity to betray him, if that had been her intent. Despite his dreams, nothing but words passed between them on the nights that they met. She still teased him; she seemed to delight in seeing him blush, but she had made no overt attempts at seduction. He knew that she would not reject any overtures from him, but something kept him from it. She had expected it; it had been plain during their earliest meetings that she had been waiting for him to make some type of advance toward her. His shyness had held him back then, but the look in her eyes when he had continued to ask for nothing more than her company: the surprised respect, the growing trust…he had come to value these above all else.

_What could a human of less than twenty-five years' age have to interest her, anyway?_ He asked himself. During their conversations, she had revealed that she was just over two-hundred years' old, and although she had never spoken directly of it, her allusions to the norms of drow society made it plain that she had been with many males, all of whom were well versed in the erotic arts. The seduction of an inexperienced human would be nothing more than a moment's amusement, and while his skin still burned at each casual touch, he was pleased that she seemed to be genuinely interested in his company. The time that they spent talking of poetry, philosophy, history and ethics appealed to him far more than the hours spent at the society balls in the company of girls whose minds were occupied with little more than the season's newest fashions and the hunt for a suitable husband.

After what seemed an eternity, he judged that it had been long enough. Slipping gingerly from the bunk, he silently pulled on his clothes and boots, buckling the belt with its sheathed dagger around his waist and lifting the book, wrapped in his cloak, from its place beneath the bed.

He moved confidently through the darkened halls of the chapter house, having long since learned the routes and schedules of the night patrols, draping the cloak over his shoulders and tucking the book beneath his arm as he stepped into the courtyard. The night air was cool enough that there would likely be first frost in the morning. The clouds overhead still hid the moon and stars, and no light shone from the windows of the chapter house, but he knew the layout of the grounds by heart, turning right and circling toward the rear of the chapter house, to the gate that he used to reach the forest path. It was a common point of egress for novices desiring to leave the chapter house undetected; the fact that the gate could only be unlatched from the inside was readily circumvented by a piece of twine tied to the latch and draped over the gate, concealed within the thorny vines that had woven about the heavy iron bars. Of course, it did create a point of vulnerability, but since it had been over two centuries since the chapter house had been attacked, it was an easy thing for the novices to dismiss.

Did any of the paladins…anyone in the city of Eshpurta know that drow prowled the forests on the slopes of the Troll Mountains? Before meeting Amaleari, Khevar had never heard of it; obviously, the drow knew that calling attention to their presence in the vicinity of a large surface city would lead to swift reprisal. The trolls for which the mountains were named provided enough activity for the various military forces that had bases in Eshpurta. His step faltered as he realized for the first time that _he_ had been aware of the presence of the drow for over six months now, but had never thought to tell a soul.

_You besotted fool!_ He scolded himself. _You should have reported at once that we have drow practically at our doorstep –_

And then what? Would Amaleari be slain along with any other drow found? He felt his gut clench at the thought. There had to be a way to protect her. If the drow had remained hidden for this long, were they truly any danger? Even as he asked the question of himself, he knew the answer. He was sworn to oppose evil, and evil dwelt beneath the Troll Mountains. In the morning, he would have to go to Fionghal and Braden, tell them what little he knew and hope that he could convince them that Amaleari was different. He would warn her tonight; perhaps she could find a place of safety, even be persuaded to come away with him, so that the others could see for themselves that there was no evil in her.

Resolved, he eased the gate open and slipped out. His steps were slow, hesitant; the cloud cover deprived him of almost all light, forcing him to move cautiously, but at last he found the path leading into the trees. The heavy rains had softened the layer of fallen leaves on the forest floor, muffling his footsteps; he had not gone far before he became aware of a sense of unease that he had never experienced in the forest before. The sensation intensified as he grew closer to the temple, until there could be no mistaking the reason.

Evil stalked the forest this night.

_Drow_, he thought with a chill. It had to be…and many of them. He should return to the chapter house and alert the Order, but what of Amaleari? Fear wrapped an icy fist around his heart. She would never have willingly betrayed him.

Beneath the concealment of his cloak, he drew his dagger, forcing himself to maintain his slow pace. His only advantage lay in the fact that the drow might think him unaware of their presence.

The stones of the crumbling temple were a pale blur in the darkness as he stepped into the clearing, moving quickly to the door, only to find the temple empty…except for Amaleari.

He saw her immediately. She lay upon the alter, naked and unmoving; even in the darkness, the gleam of blood upon her skin was unmistakable.

"Amaleari!" he moved quickly to her side, and her eyes opened, fixing upon his.

"Run," she whispered with fierce urgency. "Khaelin, _run_!"

A powerful arm snaked around his neck, and he felt the edge of a blade against his throat.

"This will be a Blooding to be celebrated, surfacer," a male voice hissed in his ear. "A traitor to Lolth and a servant of Helm in one night."

Khaelin drove the dagger backward, through his cloak and into the flesh of the drow behind him; the book fell to the ground as he brought his left hand up, forcing the blade away from his neck and twisting around to face his attacker. The drow was shorter than he; the dagger had buried itself in its abdomen. Keeping an iron grip on the drow's weapon hand, he grimly thrust deeper, seeking the aorta. The drow grunted in pain, legs beginning to waver, but behind him, Khaelin could see many more shadows, darker than the surrounding night, pouring into the temple.

"For Helm!" he shouted, pushing the dying drow off his blade, determined that the drow would pay dearly for his life and Amaleari's.

Abruptly, night turned to day, and the advancing drow immediately stopped, screeching in pain and trying to shield their eyes from the bright light that filled the air.

Khaelin himself was blinded, but as he backed towards the alter, he heard his battle cry echoed in the roar of a score of men.

_"FOR HELM!"_

Understanding and relief washed over him. Turning to the altar, he swept Amaleari to the floor, dropping to cover her with his own body as the paladins of the Order of the Radiant Heart fell upon the drow without mercy.


	4. Chapter 4

"All right," Braden said, running his fingers through his thick black hair, rising from his chair with obvious weariness and walking to the window, looking out at the overcast sky, which had begun to grow silver with the approach of dawn. "Let's go over it again, from the beginning."

Khaelin shifted in his seat, bleary eyed from lack of sleep; his wounds had been healed, and he had been permitted to change out of his bloodstained clothes, but there had been no rest since he had been brought back from the ruins, nor had he seen Amaleari since her still form had been borne away by two paladins. He opened his mouth to obey when a voice behind him spoke up.

"This is the fourth time he's been through it, Braden," Fionghal sighed. "His story has not changed; how many more times are we going to do this?"

"Until I am fully convinced of the reasons that a novice on the verge of his final Test would repeatedly break curfew to meet in secret with a drow, and would fail to inform the Order of drow activity in such close proximity to a major city," the other paladin replied tersely.

Khaelin winced miserably. The paladin's words stung all the more because they were true. "I met her in early spring," he began obediently. "I'd found the ruins of an old temple in the forest last year, and I went there often in the afternoons to read."

"From this book?" Braden asked him, holding up the leatherbound tome. It had managed to escape serious injury in the fighting, though what were undoubtedly bloodstains marred the cover.

Khaelin nodded. "It was a gift from my mother," he said for the fourth time, hoping that they would believe him and not confiscate the book. "Sometimes, I'd take a book from the library, but usually just this one. I accidentally forgot it there that day. We were supposed to depart for field training the next morning, and I didn't want to leave it there for a week. I snuck out for the first time that night to get it and found her there reading it."

"Naked." Braden regarded him with an upraised eyebrow. "And yet you insist that nothing has happened between you, either then or since?"

"It's the truth!" Khaelin insisted, feeling a blush heat his cheeks again, though the cause was shifting from embarrassment to anger. "I'll submit to a full Inquiry on it, if you don't believe me!"

He heard Fionghal chuckle behind him, but before either of the two paladins could speak, the door to the study burst open.

"Why is that creature being kept alive?" Sir Daven demanded, his face flushed an ugly shade of red. "And within the holy walls of the chapter house, no less! She should have been slaughtered with the others!"

"She's not like them!" Khaelin exclaimed without thinking. Fionghal put a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder, signaling for silence as he rose to face the outraged knight.

"There is no evil within her, Sir Daven," the paladin said, the faintest emphasis on the title reminding Tarrent of his subordinate position. "Novice Khaelin says that she is a worshipper of Eilistraee, which means that she was as much, if not more of a target last night than he was."

"That could have been her plan all along," Tarrant asserted, plainly unmollified. "A plot to get her within our walls."

"And then what?" Fionghal inquired with more than a trace of impatience. "We decimated a force of at least a score of fully armed warriors last night; what threat could a single unarmed female pose?"

"A threat more insidious than that posed by mere weapons," the knight countered. "The gods only know what damage she has done to this one in the time she has had him alone."

"There has been no damage that we could ascertain," Braden commented mildly before Khaelin could voice the indignant reply that rose to his lips. "Their interactions seem to have been quite innocuous, centering on a book of surfacer poetry that intrigued her. There is no deceit within him, and there is no sign of any untoward influence on his mind."

"Then you're not looking deeply enough!" Tarrent snapped.

A look passed between the two paladins, and Braden stepped forward, holding the book out to Khaelin. "That will be all for now, Novice. Report to your quarters and stay confined there until proper punishment for your transgressions has been decided."

"Yes, sir," the young man said as he gratefully accepted the book. He rose to go, then hesitated. "Could I…could I visit Amaleari…just for a moment, before I go to my quarters?"

Sir Daven had barked out , "No!" before Khaelin had finished speaking, but subsided under a stern glance from Fionghal.

"I don't see any harm in it," the paladin said, after exchanging a brief glance with Braden, "but the guards must remain in the room, and you will do as they instruct, understood?"

Relief flooded the novice's face. "Yes, sir…thank you, sir!"

Braden waited until the door had closed behind him before turning to address the knight. "You had no business being so harsh on the lad, Daven," he said flatly. "There's no sign of darkness in him…or in her, for that matter, from what I have heard from those who have examined her."

"No darkness?" The knight glared at him. "The _lad_ has been sneaking from the chapter house after curfew for a good six months, maybe longer! He's left the gate unsecured, the chapter house with a point of vulnerability, knowing that there were drow nearby!"

The two paladins exchanged an amused glance. "Did you want to tell him, or shall I?" Fionghal asked.

"Tell me what?" the knight demanded testily…a bit too testily, to Braden's way of thinking, considering that he was in the presence of two superiors.

"That gate's been a point of egress for novices for almost two centuries," Braden explained. "Fionghal and I both used it on occasion to sneak out after curfew; Helm only knows how many times the twine has been replaced. It was decided that it was easier to protect the breach that was known about than to run about trying to find the new ones that would be made if the gate was sealed. Anything evil trying to gain entrance to the chapter house by that route would alert every paladin within these walls."

Daven stared at him, aghast. "Does the High Watcher know of this egregious disregard of propriety and security?"

"I would assume so," Braden replied, allowing a trace of impatience into his tone, "since it was one of his predecessors who ordered the disregard, as well as the protective wards. They're healthy young men, Daven!" he exclaimed. "If you don't let them have an outlet for their energies, they'll just find one that you don't know about."

"Why wasn't I at least told of it?" Tarrent asked coldly.

_Because we knew that you would react exactly as you are,_ Braden thought. The knight had been transferred to the chapter house less than a year earlier, and while he was damn good at teaching the novices the technical skills of combat, it quickly became obvious that he thought that extreme piety was the key to regaining his lost paladinhood. "It's not considered a serious concern," he replied with a shrug. "We thought it best to permit you to settle fully into your duties. I assure you, the utilization of the gate is well monitored."

"Then how is it that the significance of his sneaking out at the full moon seems to have utterly eluded you?" The knight inquired contemptuously. "If I hadn't noticed his preoccupation with the sky at practice yesterday and made the connection with the time of the month-"

"We were aware of his choice of nights," Braden replied, deciding that it would be counterproductive to point out that Sir Daven had approached him with the concern that Braden might be a werewolf. It had been only to placate him that one of the younger paladins, Sir Donieran, had been assigned to trail the novice, and had raised the alarm after sensing the evil that stalked the forest above the town, without which, Khaelin and the drow female would likely both have been slaughtered in the ruined temple. They were indebted to the pious blowhard, regardless of how wrong his assumptions had been. "However, the full moon is also considered a choice time for romantic liaisons, and in the absence of any signs of darker motivations, it was believed that this was the most likely explanation."

"And an impressionable novice has been permitted to spend unknown lengths of time in the corrupting presence of a drow seductress," Tarrent observed. "The High Watcher will hardly approve of _that_, I think."

Braden felt his temper fray at the implied threat. If this fool thought that he could regain his status by attempting to drag down others… "The High Watcher will make his own judgement of the incident when he reads our report, which will go out before sundown today, and will, I assure you, be fully comprehensive."

Tarrent recoiled slightly from the anger in Braden's green eyes, seeming to realize for the first time that he had greatly overstepped his bounds. "I…apologize for my excessive zeal," he muttered, looking anything but apologetic. "I simply wish to prevent the youngest and most vulnerable of our brethren from falling into the same trap that led to my downfall."

_Trap my ass_, Braden thought, seeing much the same thoughts in Fionghal's darkly ironic gaze. He had read the file on the incident thoroughly before accepting the knight's transfer, but if the man continued to sidestep his own responsibility for his actions, he would never again rise above the rank of knight, and Braden wasn't certain that he agreed with the decision to show even that leniency. As a paladin of Helm, he knew that he was responsible for helping to recover those who stumbled on the path of righteousness, but Daven was not doing much to encourage charitable impulses. Still, he managed a noncommital nod in response to the knight's obsequious blatherings.

"Your concern does you credit, Sir Daven, but for now, please focus on training the youngest and most vulnerable of our brethren in the skills that will keep them alive as they combat evil. We have been most pleased with the progress shown since your arrival." That, at least, was true. The man was a damn skilled fighter, and absolutely merciless on the training field, pushing the novices to their limits and beyond, and if most of them hated his guts…well, Braden could recall feeling little warmth for the man who had overseen the training of his novitiate years until the lessons that had been drilled relentlessly into him had saved his life in battle more times than he could easily count.

The knight did not appear pleased with what was plainly an unequivocal limitation of his authority, but he produced a somewhat gracious nod. "I am pleased that my meager attemps to serve Helm have shown some success, Paladin Braden."

"Very much so," Braden assured him, managing not to roll his eyes. "Now, if you will excuse us, Fionghal and I need to begin work on our portion of the report."

After Tarrent had left, Fionghal made a rude noise. "If I'd known he was going to be this big of a prick, I'd have talked you out of accepting the transfer," he grumbled, glaring balefully at the door.

"We don't have to like him," Braden replied with a shrug. "Our duty is to see that the novices receive the best training possible in all areas, and when it comes to armed combat, Daven Tarrent is one of the best. We just have to keep him limited to that arena."

"I guarantee that he'll push the bounds of that in any way he can," the other paladin declared, seating himself at one of the two desks in the room and eyeing the parchment and quill before him morosely. "I hate writing reports; you're better at it than I am."

"That may be," Braden replied, not bothering to hide his amusement at the sudden wheedling tone in his friend's voice, "but you know the rules as well as I do. We each have to write down what we heard, saw and felt separately." He sat down and picked up his own quill resolutely. "So get to writing."

For several moments, only the scratch of his own pen on the parchment could be heard. Then, hopefully, "What if I dictated it to you?"

"Write!"

OOO

Khaelin climbed the final steps to the third floor of the chapter house, the sight of two guards at the door to one of the rooms making it plain where Amaleari was; he had been encouraged by the news that the drow had been given guest chambers, instead of one of the cells in the basement, but the presence of the guards – both females, he noted with amusement – seemed to indicate that she was still not entirely free of suspicion.

The two women, both paladins who had little to do with the training of the novices, watched his approach with measuring eyes.

"Paladins Braden and Fionghal said that I could speak with Amaleari before I reported to my quarters," he told them, trying to ignore the knowing smirk on the face of one, the open expression of disapproval worn by the other.

"Braden always was too sentimental," the disapproving one, a tall, strongly built woman with close cropped blonde hair and a ragged scar bisecting one side of what was otherwise a pretty face, disappearing beneath a black patch that hid what remained of her left eye.

"I think it's rather cute," the other woman, shorter and more curvaceous, with thick black hair pulled back into a heavy braid and twinkling blue eyes replied, her full lips curving into a teasing smile as she spoke. "You never were much for romance, Berythe."

"Romance?" The blonde paladin's voice dripped with scathing contempt. "You're a damn fool, Ashella; this boy's hormones put the entire chapter house – Hells, maybe even the entire town in danger!"

"May I go in…please?" Khaelin asked, his face flaming now, but his need to be certain that Amaleari was unharmed pushing him past his first instinct, which was to slink downstairs to his quarters and hide there for the next decade or so.

The pair paused in their squabbling to look at him in surprise. "All right, go in," Berythe grumbled, "but if I find out that Braden didn't give you permission…" She trailed off, glaring at him darkly.

Ashella winked at him. "If he was smart enough to sneak out to meet her for six months without getting caught – which is more than you were able to manage with young Count Tribane, as I recall – then he's smart enough to know that such a lie would be quickly exposed." She opened the door and he darted inside, eager to be out of the storm that Berythe's angrily flushed face promised.

The heavy curtains had been drawn across the windows of the room that he entered, and no candles or lanterns were lit. As he paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness after the hallway, whose windows had been unshielded from the brightness of the morning sun, a voice spoke from the shadows.

"I see they're at it again," the unseen male observed dryly. "At least I don't have to worry about whether or not they've fallen asleep on duty."

As his vision penetrated the gloom, he could make out two figures seated in armchairs before the unlit fireplace. As he drew closer, he felt his stomach perform a sudden flip-flop; the man who had spoken was none other than Prelate Cael'dar, the head of the Eshpurtan chapter of the Order of the Most Radiant Heart.

"I'm sorry, sir," he stammered, his eyes moving of their own volition to the second chair, relief washing through him at the sight of Amaleari returning his gaze, apparently unhurt. "I didn't mean to cause any problems, but Sir Fionghal said –" He paused, unable to take his eyes from Amaleari as the drow rose and approached him, placing a hand lightly upon his chest as her amethyst eyes looked him over from head to toe.

"You are unhurt?" she asked him. She had been given a robe to wear, the soft white cloth contrasting sharply with her skin, but it was far too large, almost swallowing her. The belt was wrapped twice around her waist, and the ends still hung close to the floor.

"I'm fine," he assured her, reaching up to cover her hand with his own. "You?" The memory of her as he had seen her last, bloody and half dead, was still strong.

"Your brethren have healed my wounds," she told him. "I had exhausted my own magics in the fight against my kindred. She leaned closer, reaching her other hand up as though to touch his face, but Prelate Cael'dar cleared his throat abruptly.

She drew back, her expression irritated but resigned. "I have promised them to limit my contact with you," she informed him quietly, then her eyes danced wickedly as she stepped forward and stood on tiptoe to kiss him lightly on the cheek, "but I believe that I owe you that, at least, for saving my life."

He had done nothing to deserve gratitude…but that didn't keep the kiss from burning on his skin with sweet fire. "I didn't do anything," he protested, remembering all too clearly how hopelessly outnumbered he had been. "If the Order hadn't arrived, we would both have been dead." He turned his eyes to Prelate Cael'dar. "Sir, I'm sorry. For sneaking out, for not telling anyone about the drow, for –" He paused. He couldn't say that he was sorry for the time he had spent with Amaleari. "Sir, Amaleari did nothing wrong."

"That much has been established," the Prelate agreed mildly. "She is indeed a true follower of Eilistraee – one of few that I have met outside of the temple in Waterdeep and the first that I have met fresh from a lifetime spent in drow society. Fascinating perspective. Is that the book that she has told me of?"

Khaelin glanced down at the book in his hands and nodded, stepping forward to offer it to the Prelate as Amaleari returned to her chair, returning the paladin's reproving glance with a completely unrepentant one of her own.

Cael'dar accepted the book, squinting at the cover in the dimness, then nodded approvingly. "An excellent book of poetry; I've a copy of my own." He brushed a thumb over the bloodstains. "You should take it to Daltrey in the library; he's skilled at restoring books, and I'll wager he's got something that'll take care of blood."

"Blood?" Amaleari reached forward and plucked the book from the Prelate's grasp without asking, frowning at the stains on the leather. She leafed through the pages, visibly relieved to find the damage confined to the cover.

"Daltrey should be able to take care of the worst of them," Cael'dar said, watching her appraisingly, "and now that you have seen for yourself that she is unharmed, Novice Khaelin, I think that it is time for you to report to your quarters until Sir Braden summons you."

"Yes, sir," Khaelin replied, trying to not seem reluctant, and hoping that the question that he had to ask would not be taken as disrespectful or insubordinate. "Sir…what will happen to Amaleari?"

"As you stated earlier, _she_ has done nothing wrong," Cael'dar replied, seeming unoffended, but his tone reminding Khaelin that _he_ had numerous disciplinary infractions that would be addressed in the very near future. "She is under the protection of the Order; the guards are more for her protection than ours. Unfortunately, there are some who refuse to believe what their own senses tell them."

"The golden-haired harpy seems to be one of them," Amaleari observed tartly.

"Many of our number have met drow in battle and come away bearing scars as a reminder," the Prelate replied gently. "Such memories die slow deaths, but it has been made clear that none here are to offer you harm." He gave her a wry smile. "The guards simply assure the doubters that you will not be permitted to slip out and slit their throats while they are sleeping."

"Or seduce them?" she asked with a sardonic quirk of one eyebrow. "I could hear one bellowing as I was being healed that they should not drop their guard…as if I could harbor even remotely sensual impulses at such a time."

Something unreadable flashed across Cael'dar' face and was gone; obviously, he knew who the drow spoke of. Khaelin wondered who it was, but did not dare to ask. Reaching out, the Prelate retrieved the book from Amaleari and passed it to him. "Take this to the library before you go to your quarters, and tell Dalton that I would like him to see to it immediately, before the blood has a chance to set."

Khaelin knew a final dismissal when he heard it. "Goodbye, Amaleari," he said, hoping that it would not be the last time he spoke to her.

She seemed to sense his doubts. "Do not worry, Khaelin," she replied. "I would not leave without being permitted to see you again." Her eyes moved cooly to Cael'dar, daring him to contradict her, but he simply nodded in agreement.

"Thank you, sir," he said, clutching the book to his chest and bowing as he backed toward the door.

"You shouldn't encourage him," Cael'dar chided her gently after he was gone. "His feelings for you are more than obvious."

"He was the first living soul that I met to treat me with kindness," she replied, her eyes flashing in irritation. "Should I repay that with cruelty?"

"It might be kinder in the end," the Prelate sighed. "No good could come of a deeper attachment. His lifespan is but a candle compared to yours; he would grow old and die while you remain virtually unchanged."

"I never intended to take him as a mate," she snapped, "but I do care for him, and I do not wish to see him hurt." She stared for a long moment into the darkness of the unlit hearth. "You have said that you will provide me escort to the temple in Waterdeep?" she asked at last.

Cael'dar nodded. "It should be done soon," he advised. "Winter approaches, and will make travel all the more difficult."

"I would see the outcome of the disciplinary process that is planned for Khaelin," she told him, "and speak on his behalf, if you feel that my words would not harm his cause. After that, I will go whenever my escort is ready."

The Prelate nodded with satisfaction and stood. "They should be ready within the week," he replied. "Khaelin's hearing will be either tomorrow or the next day, and you are welcome both to attend and to speak, should you wish."

He left, as well, and Amaleari curled up in her chair, staring into the darkness. To enter a temple where she could worship the Dark Maiden openly, in the presence of others who followed her, was a blessing that she had never dared to dream of. The Prelate was right about Khaelin; it would be a mistake to encourage his infatuation any more than she already had. Once she had gone to Waterdeep, the boy would find a human female to fix his affections upon, and perhaps she might find a male of her own kind among the followers of Eilistraee…

She sighed in resignation and closed her eyes, touching the hazy memory of being swept off of the bloodstained altar by the boy, feeling him cover her with his own body, shielding her not only from the blades of the drow, but from those of his own Order. She knew that he had taken more than one blow, had felt his body shudder in pain, but he had never moved. A foolish act, the part of her that had kept her alive for two centuries in the Underdark scoffed, the rash impulse of a besotted youth. But the part of her that the book of poems had called to recognized it as something purer and stronger than mere impulse, and felt a pang of quiet regret at the parting that she knew was necessary for his sake.


	5. Chapter 5

"Your Eminence, the prosecution rests." Berythe bowed toward the bench where Prelate Caeldess was seated, her single eye sliding toward the defense table as she lowered herself into her chair.

Khaelin, his face burning, could barely meet the paladin's openly disapproving gaze. Her case against him had been meticulously presented, beginning with a review of the Codes of Conduct that the novices were required to adhere to, following with a relentless procession of witnesses: the members of the Order who had been aware of his monthly forays; his roommates, testifying about his absences and the excuses that he had made to explain them; Sir Daven recounting his distraction at practice three days ago; Sir Donieran, the paladin who had followed him that night, testifying to the evil presence that he had sensed in the forest; members of the squad who had defeated the drow raiding party, detailing the fight and the wounds that had been received.

Dropping his eyes to the table in front of him, he swallowed hard against the nausea that churned in his gut. He stood accused of dereliction of duty, knowing utterance of a falsehood and gross negligence…and he was undeniably guilty of all three. The only reason for this Inquiry was to examine the circumstances prior to determining his punishment, and the only thing that kept Khaelin from simply resigning and returning home in disgrace was the knowledge that none of the Order had been killed or seriously wounded in the battle that his inexcusable lapses had caused.

"Easy, lad," Sir Fionghal said in a low voice. "She's just doing her job; now it's time for me to do mine." He rose, bowing respectfully to the Prelate. "Permission to begin our defense, Your Eminence?"

"Granted," Caeldess replied with a slight nod. While Berythe's opinions had been written clearly upon her face, the Prelate remained as inscrutable as a stone wall, and Khaelin felt the roiling knot in his stomach growing as he rose and moved to the witness chair at Sir Fionghal's urging.

He had been grateful that the paladin had offered to represent him, and the fact that neither he nor Sir Braden seemed to consider Khaelin's offenses to be particularly heinous had helped to assuage the worst of the guilt that he felt.

The paladin calmly led him through the same account that he had given two mornings ago, occasionally pausing to examine some detail in greater depth.

"Why did you lie to your roommates regarding your whereabouts?" he asked. In a normal legal proceeding, such a matter would have been of minor importance, but because of Khaelin's status as one who hoped to be accepted as a paladin, his lies were one of the main charges against him.

"I didn't want them to get into trouble," Khaelin replied simply. "If they didn't know what I was doing, they couldn't be blamed."

Fionghal nodded. "You have testified that it did not occur to you to mention the presence of drow so near to Eshpurta because you sensed no evil in the priestess, Amaleari; is that correct?"

Khaelin nodded, his face flushing with shame at his mindless oversight. Raising his head, his eyes fell upon Amaleari, garbed in the formal robes of her station. He hadn't seen her since their brief meeting the morning after the battle, but he had heard that Prelate Caeldess had ordered the robes made by an Eshpurtan tailor, and that the Prelate had made it known in no uncertain terms that she was to be treated with the utmost respect. Catching his eye, she gave him a reassuring smile that he returned instinctively…until he saw Berythe's scowl.

Shifting his eyes away from the drow and schooling his expression, he nodded again, saying, "That is correct, sir."

"You also testified that when you entered the forest three nights ago, you immediately sensed the presence of evil," the paladin continued. "Why did you not immediately return to the Chapter House to alert the Order?"

Khaelin drew a deep breath. He knew what his reasons had been, but it had taken over an hour with Fionghal to convert instinct and emotion into a verbal response that the paladin had felt would satisfy the demands of the Inquiry.

"The evil was within the forest," he replied, his voice steady and measured, "and since that was where I believed Amaleari to be, then it stood to reason that _she_ was in the greatest danger. My duty as a servant of Helm required me to ensure her safety before all else. The sentries within the Chapter House would have sensed the approach of a drow force of any size, and would have worked together to eliminate the threat. Amaleari's only protection was me, and any delay would likely have been fatal for her."

Fionghal nodded, the approving gleam in his eye telling the novice that his answer had been well phrased. Before Khaelin could enjoy the relief that swept through him, however, Fionghal turned to Berythe. "Your witness," he said politely before returning to his seat.

The blonde paladin stood, her one blue eye regarding him thoughtfully as she moved across the floor until she stood before him. "So, racing to the rescue of a damsel in distress was simply responding to your training?" she asked him casually.

He nodded, ignoring the veiled sarcasm in her words. "We are taught that our duty is to protect those in need."

"I am aware of that, novice," she replied wryly, eliciting a spate of chuckles from the gallery that were instantly quelled by a reproving glance from the Prelate. "And where in your training did they cover breaking curfew, lying and blatantly disregarding security protocols?"

"They did not, Paladin Berythe," Khaelin replied in a level voice. "I have already admitted to those offenses, and stand ready to accept whatever punishment is deemed fitting."

"Even if that punishment is expulsion from the Order?" she wanted to know, her right eyebrow raised in inquiry.

He nodded slowly. "If that is the decision," he said, feeling the possibility weighing upon him like a stone on his chest, "then I must abide by it. My actions were wrong."

"Admirable sense of responsibility," Berythe murmured, glancing back toward Amaleari before murmuring, "I hope she was worth it."

"Objection!" Fionghal shot to his feet, the look of warning in his eyes stilling the indignant retort on Khaelin's lips.

"Sustained," Caeldess responded calmly. "Please refrain from unneeded commentary in your questioning."

"My apologies, Your Eminence," she replied, inclining her head respectfully toward the Prelate before turning her gaze back to Khaelin.

"What _was_ your motivation for breaking so many of the tenets that you had sworn to uphold?" she asked, her casual pose gone, turning so that only her eyepatch and the jagged scar marring the left side of her face were visible to him. "Tenets that so many of our Order have died to uphold? By your own testimony, she was in no danger until three nights ago, yet you have been flagrantly disregarding protocol for at least six months." She twisted to face him, her good eye narrowed accusingly. "Why?"

Khaelin dropped his eyes from her gaze. He had known that the question would be asked, but with Amaleari's eyes on him, his carefully rehearsed answer about duty and compassion deserted him. "She is my friend," he said at last. "She wanted to understand more about the ways of the surface, and I wanted to help her."

"Do you love her?"

That question startled him. "No!" he said immediately, then, "I…I don't know. I've never been in love, so I'm not sure how it feels." He could feel his face flaming, and did not dare look toward Amaleari. He couldn't lie…not here. "I care about her," he said at last.

Berythe regarded him with open skepticism. "So, you don't know if you are in love with her. Could you say with any degree of certainty that you were in _lust_ with her?"

His head jerked up, his eyes blazing. "No!" he said heatedly, just as Fionghal called out his objection.

"Overruled," Caeldess said simply, gesturing to Berythe to continue. Fionghal sat down, his eyes warning Khaelin to hold his temper.

"So…you felt no lustful feelings for her at all?" Berythe said, shaking her head in mock wonder. "You never noticed how beautiful she is?"

Khaelin nodded slowly. "I did," he admitted softly.

"Never felt any stirrings of desire?"

He closed his eyes. "Yes."

"Excuse me?" She leaned toward him. "I didn't quite catch your answer."

He swallowed hard. "Yes," he said more loudly. "I did."

She nodded. "Never harbored any remotely erotic thoughts?"

"Your Eminence," Fionghal protested, beginning to rise again.

"These questions are important in clarifying the motivations of the defendant," Berythe cut him off smoothly.

Caeldess nodded. "You may continue, but make certain that your questions remain pertinent to the matter at hand."

"Thank you, Your Eminence," Berythe replied, turning back to Khaelin. "Do I need to repeat the question?"

"No." He shook his head miserably, his eyes turned downward again, shame flaring through him. "I…did."

"Dreams?" she wanted to know.

Gods, would this never end? "Yes," he ground out through clenched teeth.

"So, then," Berythe continued, moving until she stood directly before him again, "would it be accurate to say that your actions resulted from your infatuation and obsession with this drow?"

The drawl in her voice made an insult of the final word; cold anger bloomed within him, pushing away the heat of shame. "It wasn't like that," he said in a tightly controlled voice, raising his gaze to hers. "We talked, I read to her from the book, and that was all. I never touched her."

"But you wanted to," Berythe said softly, "didn't you?"

Defeated, Khaelin lowered his head again. "Yes."

"No further questions, Your Eminence," Berythe concluded as she returned to her seat.

Numbly, Khaelin stood. At the edge of his vision, he could see Amaleari arguing heatedly with Sir Braden, who seemed to be trying to calm her, but he couldn't bring himself to look directly at them. Returning to his place beside Fionghal, he slumped into his seat, barely aware of the other witnesses that the paladin called on his behalf, testifying to his martial skill and devotion to the Order and to Helm.

"Your Eminence, the defense calls Amaleari Everhana, Priestess of Eilistraee."

Startled, Khaelin raised his head as Amaleari strode to the witness chair and seated herself, her bearing as regal as a queen. Her eyes shifted briefly toward him, but he looked away, shame staining his cheeks again at the memory of the confessions that had been pulled from him minutes earlier.

Fionghal led her through her testimony, much as he had Khaelin, her heavily accented voice ringing out confidently through the inquiry chambers.

"Has the defendant ever behaved in an inappropriate fashion toward you?" the paladin asked her politely.

"Never," she replied flatly, turning her head to regard Berythe with open contempt. "He has never treated me with anything but the utmost courtesy and chivalry, and he risked his life to save mine. He should be considered an asset to your Order, and if you are fool enough to release him from Helm's service, I assure you that my Goddess will welcome him."

"Your witness," Fionghal told Berythe, his voice noticeably curter than it had been before.

The blonde paladin approached the drow more slowly than she had Khaelin, her eyes shifting briefly to Prelate Caeldess as she walked, plainly gauging what she could and could not say.

"You are a Priestess of Eilistraee, you say?" she asked.

"I believe that has already been established to the satisfaction of your Prelate," Amaleari replied coolly. The scar on Berythe's left cheek seemed to pale suddenly as her face flushed, but a glance at Caeldess told her that there was no point in pressing for a more direct answer.

"How does one of your faith survive within drow society?" she asked instead. "I had been led to believe that Lolth tolerated the worship of no other deities."

"Your information is correct," the drow nodded. "Followers of the Moon Maiden survive by stealth and subterfuge."

"By lying, you mean?" Berythe pressed her.

Khaelin stiffened in outrage, but Amaleari shrugged. "We lie, we hide, we live daily in a society that is the antithesis of everything that we believe, knowing that a single slip will result in a death that will be begged for long before it is received."

"A difficult life," the paladin commiserated, "and one that anyone would be eager to escape, by whatever means possible."

Amaleari sat up straighter, her amethyst eyes blazing in sudden anger. "If you mean to suggest that I manipulated Khaelin to that end, I suggest that you either retract the accusation or be ready to defend it upon the field of honor," she hissed.

Berythe drew back slightly, visibly startled by the drow's vehemence, and glanced questioningly to Caeldess.

"I'll accept that as a 'no', Paladin," the Prelate said with a wry smile: the first that Khaelin had seen on his face during the Inquiry. "Proceed to your next question, please."

Berythe nodded, looking none too pleased by the ruling. "What, then, are your feelings for the defendant?"

There was a long pause, and Khaelin could feel Amaleari's eyes upon him as she answered. "He is a kind, brave and honorable man, and the first living soul that I considered a friend."

"Then you do not share the feelings that he has expressed for you?" the paladin persisted.

"I said that he was a friend," Amaleari replied sharply. "Sexual liaisons are considerably different in drow society; romantic impulses play no role in them, but for me to have taken advantage of his feelings in that way would have been a betrayal of his friendship, and the ideals that he taught me."

Khaelin closed his eyes, slowly releasing the breath that he had been holding. She had known how he felt; part of him was relieved that his confessions had not been a surprise or an offense to her, but knowing that his feelings were not returned left a hollow feeling in his chest. Such a fool…

"No further questions, Your Eminence," Berythe said, bowing to the Prelate.

Caeldess nodded. "You may step down now, Priestess," he told Amaleari graciously. Khaelin heard her light footsteps pause beside the table, knew that she was trying to catch his eye, but he could not bring himself to raise his head to meet her gaze.

"Khaelin Matthaias, rise and approach."

At Prelate Caeldass' command, Khaelin stood and moved to stand before the bench, Sir Fiongal at his side, his stomach churning with dread, his fists clenched at his side.

"It is my opinion that there was no ill intent in your actions, and that your interactions with the Priestess of Eilistraee upheld the spirit of the Watcher's will for his followers. Therefore, you shall be permitted to remain within the Order."

"However," he continued before Khaelin could enjoy the swell of relief that rose within him, "your transgressions _did_ break the letter of the laws that are meant to guide our conduct, and such things cannot be dismissed out of hand, regardless of the motivation. It is my decision that your Test be postponed for one year, to permit you to refocus yourself on your dedication to Helm."

Khaelin swallowed hard. It was more than he expected…more than he deserved, but still…to see Donnal, Liam, Alivar and the others be accepted as Paladins and go forth to fight for Helm, while he remained behind with a group of novices who would know exactly why he remained among them, just how great of a fool he had been…

Fionghal nudged him sharply. "Thank…thank you, Your Eminence," he managed to say, his mouth as dry as sandpaper. "I'll do my best not to disappoint you again."

"I'm sure that you will," Caeldess said, not unkindly, before raising his gaze to the gallery. "These proceedings are concluded."

The respectful silence that had been maintained by the onlooking members of the Order was rapidly replaced by the rumble of multiple conversations and shifting chairs. Khaelin drew away from Fionghal, his eye on the side door to the Inquiry chamber; more than anything, he didn't want to have to push his way through that crowd to reach the main doors in back…didn't want to be forced to face _her_.

He heard Amaleari's voice call out his name as he strode for the door, but he ignored it, pushing the door open and stepping out into the hall, turning immediately in the direction of the dormitory wing. All he wanted to do right now was to get back to his own rooms and stay there until after she was gone.


End file.
